To discover what motivated this journey, read part one. For the journey itself, read on…
I like running, but not in the way some people like running. In the days before I set off on an unplanned run through the UK, footage appeared on social media and TV news of the two Brownlee brothers at the end of a triathlon so gruelling that just pondering it saps calories. In the video, one of the brothers pauses, reels on the spot, staggers, looks about as close to cardiac arrest as it’s possible to look without being attached to a defibrillator, and then his brother appears, throws his arm over his brother’s shoulder and aides him in an ungainly stumble, reminiscent of a three-legged race, towards the finish line where he swoons into pain, physical oblivion and post-traumatic stress disorder. This is a psychological aberration. People are sectioned for less.
But I do get the draw of pain and punishment. To some extent, far removed from the Brownlee’s limit of endurance, I enjoy exertion. I thought this as I began my run from my Mum’s house in Oxford, an unplanned jaunt to no destination, with no time-frame, route or objectives. I felt the light-headed buzz of breathlessness, the gush of endorphins. I passed a sign advertising a coming fun run. Fun. That was for wimps. This would be the unfunnest, unfunniest, most funless run of my life. But if I got really tired I’d stop and have a cup of tea in Subway.
It all began with an empty space.
I’d noticed it take form in my diary. A run of blank pages, cleaned of life as it should be. The weeks leading up to and after this time were messy with scribbled reminders of tasks and presentations, shifts in A&E, meet-ups with mates. I wasn’t sure how this void came about, but sometimes I wondered if I’d made it happen.
Half-consciously, perhaps I’d cultivated a little nest of free time, meticulously positioning my life outside of it. Perhaps I needed to journey again. Perhaps I was straining to hear the call of a new adventure, like everybody warned me I would.
It had been eight months since I’d got back from cycling around the world, and the journey itself felt more like a single place than a string of them; a place now fenced off and unreachable, with a shimmery and yearnful quality. It’s extraordinary how divorced I feel from those years, considering they’ve only just passed. I get a misty-eyed, hollow feeling when a trawl through my photos on flickr. I feel oddly bereft.
Back home, the sense of physical pursuit faded as the mental pursuit of authorship heaved into its place. I’ve tried to embrace the writing life. Mainly by living on bland food and being broke. But my new flat is not quite a garret, and I’m not suicidal. So there’s still some way to go on these fronts.
This blog will continue! I’m just taking two months off to give talks, write my book proposal, make a video and rejoin my profession. I’ve created a new personal website, which has the dates of my upcoming talks around the UK…. www.stephenfabes.com
. For now, I leave you with my last blog post…
It was Germany that played host to the chilly,
Thoughts on returning home after six years around the world by bicycle
My journey around the globe began fatefully – with a life-changing decision, taken in the pub.
Pint in hand, mini-atlas flipped open on the table, I sat in the beer garden of The George near London Bridge on some forgotten day in 2008,
parading a new plan to a small circle of friends. Pen hovering above the tiny dot of London, I flashed a grin at my audience – all frowns – and began sketching out my route around the globe and across six continents. All would be conveniently handled, I’d affirmed, by bicycle. ‘In six years, give or take.’